


Saturday Revolutions

by tinytveit



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bahorel is a little shit, Bondage, Dom!Feuilly, Fingerfucking, Gags, Hand Jobs, I hate them so much, M/M, Noorii made me do it, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Rimming, Sub!Bahorel, Teasing, There's no ounce of plot here, and Feuilly quotes the Lion King, oh god I'm SO SORRY, these two idiots will be the death of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinytveit/pseuds/tinytveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel finally loses a fight and Feuilly is surprisingly possessive. What happens next is anybody's guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Revolutions

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt EVER at writing smut but I love this pairing so much and there's so little smut so I had to just take a stab at it....7 pages later, and there's a box outside where you can queue for returns. 
> 
> I blame Noorii. And I am so fucking sorry for the abysmal title.
> 
> You can find me at tiny-tveit.tumblr.com. Feedback is lovely, as are prompts if you have anything you'd like to see :)

“You sonnuva...dammit, Feuilly!” Bahorel grunted, failing to dodge an uppercut from the smaller man in front of him. In his surprise, he stepped backwards, not anticipating the forward charge from Feuilly and stumbled on a hastily discarded shoe. “Shit!” Feuilly’s fist connected with his collarbone, upsetting his balance even more. If not for the couch, the mammoth of a man would have met the ground with a resounding crash.

His hot, muscled bulk, naked but for a pair of obscenely fitting jeans (damn those jeans, Feuilly always curses him when he wears them. They sank dangerously low on his hipbones and clung to his sculpted thighs like they were painted on. At one point they were a dark denim but have since faded to almost white, stains of who-knows-what painting shadowing contours all over his lower body and creating a picture Feuilly’s artist mind can’t ignore. Damn those jeans), hit the leather couch with a wet smack. Not missing a beat, Feuilly leaped on him before he could get up, bracketing Bahorel’s hips with his knees. Encircling Bahorel’s hand with his own, he pinned his arms to the armrest of the couch and ground down on the other mans’ hips, effectively pinning him in place.

“Pinned ya.” He flashed a toothy grin, orange-red hair falling into his eyes.

“Feuilly, I swear to fuck if you just quoted The Lion King at me...” He lurched, forcing his hands forward and catching Feuilly just enough off his guard to pitch him off the couch.

Landing with a thump on the floor, Feuilly groaned as Bahorel leaped at him. Having Bahorel, a dark column of 6’5” and 240 pounds of muscle, leaping at you in any situation was a frightening occurrence, much less when he had the advantage of a higher ground and a renewed fervor to beat the shit out of you in a staged fight. Feuilly, despite being used to it (they did this every Saturday, after all) he still choked back a strangled cry of surprise as he scrambled backward. Backing up against the wall of their suddenly too-small apartment. Using the rough plaster behind him as leverage, Feuilly scrambled to an upright position and leaped back at Bahorel, still stalking him on all fours like a beast.

The two met with a grunt and collapsed to the hardwood floor. Bahorel knotted a giant hand in Feuilly’s long curls, eliciting a bony knee to the solar plexus. Air escaped his lungs in a painful rush and he released his hastily-gained grip. Using the advantage, Feuilly resumed the potion from the couch. This time, Bahorel was winded enough to make him unable to escape.

“Pinned ya again.”

“Fuck, you ginger shit. Let me go!” It was hard to imagine the man whine, but Bahorel was not used to losing; the use of his 3rd favorite Disney movie quoted against him was the last straw.

Feuilly grinded down on his hips, creating rough friction at the point of contact between their hips, 2 miserable layers of denim separating their steadily hardening cocks. Bahorel made no move to get up.

“MOVE, you bastard!” He tried to thrash his hips upward to heighten the friction. Feuilly immediately stopped his downward motion at dug his nails into Bahorel’s wrist. “Oh yeah, fine, you bastard. You win.”

With a triumphant whoop!, Feuilly pushed himself upright and dusted his hands off, his face cut wide with a grin in anticipation.

Bahorel remained on the floor, propping himself up on his elbows and…waited. He could only look at his roommate with confusion, waiting to see his orders. The winner of their fights always had to submit to the winner for the remainder of the day. Only recently had it become a sexually fueled goal, but damn if that didn’t make Saturdays more interesting beyond beer and shitty TV movies.

Minutes passes as Feuilly eyed his prize up and down, soaking in the body that would soon be his. He licked his lips in anticipation, fighting every urge to strip his own clothing off and take him right there in the kitchen.

“Take those damn jeans off, and go wait on the bed. If you touch yourself before I get there, so help me god, I won’t let you come for a week.”

With surprising grace, Bahorel all but leaped to his feet and retreated with glee to their shared bedroom. Feuilly waited to hear the familiar creak of the bed frame as he settled down, and held off a few more minutes before making his move. The anticipation would kill Bahorel, he knew, and wanted to have a much control as possible over the man who so rarely acquiesced his own body to someone else.

He quietly made his way into the bedroom. He could hardly tear his eyes off the other man. The sight of him laying there, naked, and filled with lust looking at his best friend with anticipation…a few calming breaths were required to steady his nerves before Feuilly got to work.

Grabbing their box of supplies from the back of their shared wardrobe, he moved Bahorel’s limbs into place and hastily slipped the padded cuffs around each wrist and ankle before running a line from them to the bedframe.

“You good?” Feuilly was new at this. He had dommed maybe 3 times before this. It wasn’t his fault; Bahorel was a bitch to beat in a fight. But god, if he wasn’t looking forward to this. He just wanted to not royally fuck up, so he’d be allowed to do it again.

When he received an excited nod from Bahorel, he began. “Don’t you come until I say you can, understood?” Another nod. “If you do, there will be punishment.”

“Oh, I dare you!” He flashed the smile he was so famous for, the one where it was far more disconcerting than comfortable or happy. Feuilly raised one eyebrow. And the smile got wider.

If Bahorel wanted to test him…the poor, tied up man had no idea what he had just caused.

Favoring the anticipation of silence over acknowledging his actions to his willing submissive, Feuilly was silent as he surveyed his newly won territory. Pausing briefly from his gaze to retrieve lube from the bed stand, he set the tube down at the base of the bed before running his hands up and down Bahorel’s muscular thighs. An obscene groan escaped his lips, followed by a loud gasp.

Feuilly, sprawled between Bahorel’s held-open legs, drew scattered kissed in the trail of his hands before reaching his cock, half-hard from anticipation and initial touching alone. Slowly, oh so slowly, he ran his tongue along the underside, pausing at the top to flick at the slit, covered in pre-come and now fully erect.

Feuilly moved to take the entire length of Bahorel down his throat, using his tongue to expertly tease. And tease, he did. Bahorel began to growl and, damn him, was he laughing? His face was split in the widest grin and he struggled minutely against his bonds. He was clearly enjoying himself. Just as his toes began to curl and his vocalizations grew more hurried and heady with arousal, Feuilly drew his mouth away with a pop.

“Fuck, it was just getting good, Feuilly!”

“Too damn bad. Remember our agreement. No coming.” He marked this point with a flick to the head of his cock. And he went back down, kissing and biting hard enough to leave bruises. After endless minutes, he drew his hand down towards Bahorel’s entrance, circling the ring of muscle until the larger man was downright trembling.

Alternating between these actions and light teasings of his cock, Feuilly felt like he could keep him on edge for hours.

Strings of fuck yous and OH GODs and “You think that’ll work?” and FEUILLY YOU LITTLE SHIT LET ME COME filled the room alongside the creaking of the bed frame as he struggled against the bonds, thankful for the padded cuffs that at least partially protected his skin from what would have been struggles hard enough to draw blood with anything else.

The ministrations ceased, replaced by a HARD slap to his inner thigh. He had to bite his cheek to keep from crying out. “If you don’t shut your damn mouth, I will shut it for you.”

This did nothing to quiet him. Bahorel just KNEW he could make him change his mind. So he got louder. And the teasing intensified. He groaned, moaned, clenched his toes and begged to be let go, from the bonds and from the control. And he was LOUD.

“Oh, fuck you.” And then the weight was gone from the bed, his warmth around his ring of muscle gone without warning.

He completely left the room, leaving Bahorel alone. A miniscule ounce of fear settled in his stomach. It was quenched in a few minutes, though, as his faith in the builder calmed his nerves and he returned. What he returned with was more concerning.

“The fuck, dude? What’s that?” Feuilly just shrugged, ignoring the boxer, and balled up the piece of fabric he had gathered, shoving it roughly into his open mouth. The protestations instantly muffled but did not stop. He thrashed against his bonds again, but did not give indication of needing to stop. Feuilly stepped back, observing his creation and paused to give him plenty of time to react. He knew the signal, so he would have given it.

Resigning himself to his fate, the larger man gave one last petulant tug on his cuffs and settled his head back on the pillow, sighing heavily into the red fabric that was being slowly soaked in his saliva.

“There, now that’s better, isn’t it? I can finally hear myself fucking think.” The lithe redhead positioned himself between Bahorel’s spread legs and attacked him with renewed fervor. Pausing only briefly to reapply lube, he placed a cold finger back at the edge of Bahorel’s ringed muscle, providing the lightest of touches that were almost a light tickle. As Bahorel involuntarily clenched with insistency, Feuilly pushed a single digit in as far as he could. A hiss from the head of the bed that escaped the gag made him grin. “You ready?” He asked, not hesitatingly but with a minor node of trepidation. Bahorel’s stupid, STUPID hair, cut in that long Mohawk flopping all over, bounced as he vigorously nodded.

Bringing his finger out completely before putting it back, plunging it back and forth as his lover writher beneath him, moaning through the gag and clearly unsatisfied, he began purposefully arching his fingers away from his sweet spot, making him want more and refusing the release of pleasure he craved. Feuilly added one finger at a time until he had 3 inside the large man. His speed grew steadily until, even with his avoidance of the nerve bundle at the prostate, Bahorel was still hard and leaking on his stomach. Moans that barely escaped past the gag did nothing to help his cause. It only fueled Feuilly’s motivation.

Growing ever more aware of the pressure in his own crotch, Feuilly briefly considered just letting go and fucking his not-boyfriend until he couldn’t see straight. Well, he assumed by the obscene noises coming from the top of the bed, maybe he couldn’t see straight. Too bad the poor bastard had only just gotten started.

As Feuilly fucked him mercilessly with his fingers, Bahorel tried anything to get some friction. ANYTHING. What seemed like hours passed before the gingershit removed his fingers. Gasping behind the bundle of red cloth, Bahorel almost whimpered at the sudden loss of pressure and heat. He felt decidedly empty.

Feuilly walked around the full-sized bed (and how they both fit on this tiny fucking mattress with the bulk of Bahorel was surely the discussion of a future Nobel Peace Prize in physics) and leaned casually over the heaving chest. He trailed his fingers down and round the muscled ridges, pausing over each nipple with feather-light touches. Mapping out the fighter’s torso with his hands, tracing tattoos he already knew by heart and always stopping deliciously short of his aching cock, Feuilly leaned forward and planted a rough kiss on Bahorel’s lips puckering around the gag. They both moaned desperately, but before Bahorel could raise up with as much leverage as he could manage in his bindings, Feuilly pulled away and twisted one sensitive nipple.

The resulting hiss made his face break into a smile. “You still doing okay?” His voice betrayed only the slightest hint of concern, knowing full well that while Bahorel was okay with being submissive - a talk they had ages ago before starting this damn competition – he wasn’t used to it. And while Feuilly was having a lot of fun, he didn’t want to push the other man too far. Bahorel shot him a look that was half hate, half pure lust but he again made no signal to say, “stop.”

Thinking it was time to get him going for real, Feuilly uncapped the lube with an echoing click in the small room and lazily allowed it to drip on to Bahorel. He took a few moments to spread it over his length; at this touch he bucked into Feuilly’s hand. Not wanting to disparage him of the please he’d been lacking, Feuilly cupped his fist around Bahorel’s cock and began pumping lightly. The sound that managed to escape from behind the gag, a groan that descended into a moan that quickly moved to a high keening sound had an astounding effect on Feuilly’s own erection, rubbing tightly against the denim of his jeans. Quickening his pace, allowing Bahorel to react as physically as possible, Feuilly resumed his barrage of kisses and feather-light touches across the fighter’s torso with his free hand.

So near to the edge, Bahorel blinked back tears that sprang unheeded to his eyes. He was so close…he couldn’t…doing his very best around the gag to alert Feuilly that  
 _this is happening and I can’t stop it_ , a string of curses interspersed with Feuilly’s name were mumbled as best as they could be. Feuilly at once noticed the change of tone and the words were not altogether unintelligible. He ceased stroking Bahorel and leaned down to pepper kisses along his neck and chin that ended with a sharp tug and bite at his earlobe. “Open up.” Bahorel did without preamble and the bundled cloth was removed. As his chest heaved with an influx of air, Feuilly initiated another kiss, this time one that was returned with heavy need. Their tongues scraped against teeth, exploring every crevice and both were vying dominance in the kiss, even now. Even with Bahorel tied to the bed and so close to orgasm he might die, but for the control of Feuilly. Pulling away left both of them equally breathless.

Before Bahorel could say a word, his mouth newly freed, Feuilly formed a tight hold on his cock. Bahorel shook his head, protesting. “No, no…I can’t, it’s…it’s too much. Let me come. Please.”

“You want to come?” He began stroking up and down with careful slowness, preventing him from bucking into his hand with a knee driven down into his hipbone.

His pleading was barely able to escape his mouth as a gasp. “Oh god _please_ …”

“Who owns you, Bahorel?”

“What?” His anger and confusion were laden with lust, but they were still evident despite the pained look.

“Bahorel...” He sped up his hand. “Who owns you?”

“Why does that fucking… _OH GOD_ ….”

“I own you, Bahorel.”

His desperation, even worse than before which was not previously though possible, clouded his mind as he thrashed wildly against the cuffs, wrenching his head back and forth in a dire need of release, hands curled into white-knuckled fists. “I, okay…just...” Words were impossible to form, it would seem. Feuilly knew he would come through, though, and fisted his free hand in his hair and pulled his gaze towards himself.

“Tell me, damnit. Who owes you?”

“FUCK, oh fuck, oh fuck…You own me, you bastard. You fucking _own me._ ”

Suddenly too hard for his own good, Feuilly reached in and grabbed his own cock, stroking it in time with Bahorel’s. Feeling himself come to the edge all too quickly, he sped up both hands and finally said the magic words: “Come, Bahorel. Come.”

Hot white liquid spilled into Feuilly’s hand. Both hands continued, stroking Bahorel until he was completely spent; Feuilly was finished soon after. He collapsed on the still-trembling body of Bahorel, the man who was totally-not-his boyfriend laying beneath him and breathing heavily. They laid there for a few blissful moments before coming back to reality. Bahorel’s had been closed and remained so as Feuilly righted himself and began undoing the cuffs. He paused at each limb, gently massaging the skin to make sure no lasting damage had been done.

Bahorel relaxed, moving his limbs into a more natural position. So what if it seemed perfectly natural to wrap his arms around Feuilly as he laid back down? Happy to touch him finally, his blunt fingers massaged Feuilly’s scalp through his curly red hair. “Thank you. That was…amazing.” Feuilly was not looking at his face, but could hear the smile.

“No, thank you. For letting me do that. You’re amazing. And we need to do this again…” He sighed contentedly into Bahorel’s chest and wished he could be there forever.

Eventually, they were satisfied with their cuddling and got up to clean themselves off. As Feuilly retrieved a warm cloth from the bathroom to wash the mess up, he had a thought. “Bahorel, did you swear at me in Arabic? I didn’t know you knew Arabic…”

He shrugged his tattooed shoulders with a grin. “I know a lot more than you know I know. Did you quote The Lion King at me during foreplay?”

Feuilly’s freckles were highlighted by a red flush. “Okay, fine. We both have strange methods…”

“Damn right, we do. Now clean me up, you bastard. I want to you touch me again…I am yours, after all. Right?”

“Damn right.” Fuck, that fucker and his stupid smile…Bahorel hated it. It was the best thing in the world.

And if that’s what this would do to the man he loved, maybe it would be okay to lose a fight on purpose more often.


End file.
